MONSTER
by ThreeInOne
Summary: He was a freak, a monster. He knew it and they knew it too. And he enjoyed every minute of it. Rated T for death and descriptive violence.


**((Okay, this story would just not leave me alone, so I thought I might as well post it. Here's a Transformers Prime story about our favorite medic...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Transfomers Prime.))**

**MONSTER**

No one seemed to understand. No one seemed to pay attention or bother to get all the details or really care, actually. Unless the rumors spread and then the looks came, the looks of fear and mistrust. The looks that indicated that, to him, he'd always be a monster, an unredeemable abomination, even by their sadistic standards. Because he bothered to experiment, to test upon their fellow teammates.

Because he was insane.

He didn't deny that. No, he accepted it. In fact, he reveled in it. To hear his subject scream, writhe against his bonds, beg and plea for mercy. Then he would bury the whirling blade of the saw into their spark chamber and watch the life fade from their optics, watch their lifeblood pour out and their very soul cease to be. His lord applauded his work, even if he killed a clone every day. Anything he learned to use against their enemies was a definite bonus. That was his number one job after all-to develop WMDs. To destroy their opponents, melt them into slag. And enjoy doing it.

"Sir?" so he could easily say that having one of the drones appear at his doorstep with a limp and massive bleeding on his side was a definite surprise. He knew the patient in question: 549, one of the few who actually helped him occasionally, still considered him a decent mech. He put his tool down, turning.

"Ah, 549!" he clapped his hands together briskly, ushering toward a berth. The drone walked right past him, optics shifting nervously, and took a seat, grunting as he did so. "What seems to be the problem?"

549's optics had a spark of incredulity and he steamrolled right through his patient's words. "Right, possibly broken leg, few breached Energon lines, let's get to work. Lay down and stay relaxed." 549 did so, not even flinching when the metal restraints were clamped down over his arms, legs, and neck. He'd worked with the good doctor long enough to know it was a precautionary measure against less than enthusiastic patients. The doctor turned to his table full of tools, selecting a scalpel that normally wasn't used often. He flicked it on, watching the blue light flare up, the slight spark that made a smile grace his face. 549 winced at the pain that cut into his leg, paneling being sliced apart and removed. He now had a perfect look at the wires inside the drone's leg, some frayed and cut, with mechanisms beneath scorched and busted. It shouldn't be too hard to fix.

_But you can do better, can't you? _the ever-nagging voice in the back of his head whispered. _Why stop with his leg when you can __do so much more? You can make him exponentially better-a work of art! He'd appreciate it a lot more, you know._

And indeed, he did know. His hand shifted to his favorite weapon on and off the field, the saw. 549's head tried to tilt up to look but he couldn't. The moment the blades stared to whirr the drone's spark rate increased a notch in panic. He could've always disabled his patient's pain receptors. But where was the fun in that?

The minute the blades touched the metal of 549's leg, sparks began to fly and the drone started up a scream that started low but increased in frequency. Soon the scream of the saw and the scream of the victim intermingled as the doctor sliced the leg off, leaving a massive puddle of Energon and dripping lines. He switched to a welder to weld the lines shut and washed up the Energon, tossing the leg into an incinerator he kept in the far corner for these times. Then he turned to the other leg, cutting through it with the same casualness, the screams becoming music to his audios.

"Please," 549 clutched at his arm once he'd finished the other leg, leaving his patient unable to stand or walk. "I beg of you, no more. What did I do? I didn't want to-I'll never-have mercy, please!"

"Mercy," he laughed coldly. "Mercy. Now you're thinking like one of them." Then he scowled. "It disgusts me." His fists coldly beat 549 over the head, leaving him with a cracked optic and several dents. "_You _digust me! All of you digust me! All you ever do is beg for mercy, cry and scream for repentance, instead of sucking up your procedure like real mechs. I try to stand it and I can't! That's why so many have fallen before me." He groped forward to grab a drill, meticulously opening the plating surrounding the drone's neck. "I'd prefer for this operation to remain silent, if you'd please."

A hand wrapped around the drone's vocalizer and crushed it, before ripping it out in a shower of Energon. 549 tried to speak but garbled static came out, which he was unable to string into a coherent sentence. He breathed a sigh of relief and took up his saw, making the perfect incision at the shoulders to take his arms. The deformed blob of twisted metal that soon sat before him wasn't quite done; he'd still have to take his head and then the internal organs before he was fully done. The raw panic in the soldier's eyes was tinged with horror and he smiled.

"That's right," the doctor whispered, leaning in to speak to his patient. "I'm a monster. A freak." To emphasize this, he licked a drop of Energon off 549's face, ignoring the digust his optics now held. "And I enjoy every minute of it." The saw bit into the Vehicon's neck cables, cutting, slicing, until a head lay there. His expression remained one of horror, even in death. And the medic couldn't stand it.

The saw cut and cut and cut. He was attacking the corpse with a lethality, animal snarls tearing out of his vocalizer, that he wasn't even aware of his lord's arrival until he heard his impatient cough. Then he spun on his heel, saw drawn, face contorted in a snarl. His arms were soaked in Energon, a bloody pulp of a mess the only remains of the drone. His spark chamber had been cut in two and then sliced into tiny bits.

"Oh," was all he could get out, panting. Optimus stared at him blankly, almost but not quite confused.

"I was told you were working on your next project, not busy with another one of your temper fits," his leader remarked, arms crossing his chest, eyebrow cocked. He shuffled nervously.

"Of-Of course, Lord Optimus. I was just going to continue my work," he bowed respectfully. "I will inform you when I am done."

"See to it that you do," Optimus nodded, starting for the door. "And if you need another Vehibot, ask-I'll gladly deliver." He could only nod.

Once Optimus had left, he went about tossing 549's remains into the incinerator, cleaning off the berth until it shimmered and showed his reflection. He stared at it, the white faceplate, red chevron, emotionless blue optics. Lacking in anything anyone could call mercy or care or anything but a sadistic gleam. A sociopathic light that refused to be subdued unless he killed everyone. Killed all those who were weak. And, indeed, he did. And the weak feared him for it.

Ratchet was a monster.

And he enjoyed every minute of it.

**((...Shattered Glass-ified.))**


End file.
